


I BELONG TO: Simon Snow

by e_li_za



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: M/M, Mental Illness, SO, bc i dont know, diary format, dont ask me what he has/is wrong with him, i basically just pushed all my symptoms on simon, referenced self harm, wish i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_li_za/pseuds/e_li_za
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The diary of Simon Snow</p>
            </blockquote>





	I BELONG TO: Simon Snow

February 3,

My therapist is making me do this. Told me it would help me “use my words”. Fuck my therapist. Fuck words.

February 6,

My therapist asked me if i’d written in my diary. I said yes. She asked to look in it. I said yes. She didn’t get mad at me. That was weird. She said she wasn’t going to check it anymore, but I still have to write. About my feelings. Right now, I’m feeling tired. Tired of writing. Fuck words.

February 7,

Today I stayed completely silent for the entire day. If someone talks to me, I talk back. I just don’t start conversations. Usually i say at least a couple words. But, today, not one. Don’t know how I feel about that.

February 9,

I went to school today. I’ve gone to school before. It wasn’t the first time. I normally don’t mind school. I fiddle with paper and tape and listen to the teacher talk about unimportant things. There’s a boy in that class that sits in front of me. He doesn’t talk either. He always gets the highest marks, but he never raises his hand. I stare at him sometimes. We had to do an oral presentation today. He was very good at using his words. I wasn’t. He looked at me with sharp eyes when I talked. I fumbled over my words. I can’t talk. I can’t fucking talk. I could feel him judging me. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like his sharp eyes. He got top marks.

February 12,

My therapist was glad my last entry was so long. I wasn’t. Fuck her.

February 16,

I’m doing a project with the boy with the sharp eyes. It was randomly assigned. He would’ve never chosen me. He’s sharp everywhere, full of drastic edges and angles. I wanted to touch him, for him to cut me deep, but then I remembered what my therapist said about self harm. I still want to touch him. I won’t.

February 17,

His name is Baz. I knew that before. I must’ve. We call roll every day. I guess I never took the time to remember. It suits him. It’s sharp and weird and evil-sounding. It sounds like a razor. He’s like a razor. I still want to touch him. We’re meeting after school.

February 19,

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like punching a wall or a person or yourself because you can’t do anything right, and you try to talk, to use your words, but you make it worse and worse and you want to cry over nothing just a tiny nothing thing that shouldn’t matter but it does and every time you try to fix it it just breaks more and more and more? I’m having one of those days.

The worst part is, he saw it. He saw me break and crumble over nothing. If he hated me before, now its worse. Now he pities me. Or maybe he still hates me. I can’t tell. He asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t know.

February 22,

I’m tired. During class, i stared at the wall. I’ve been doing that more and more. When I was little, I always had to be doing something, or I would get terribly bored. My hands would start moving and taking things apart and I wouldn’t being able to put them back together. I would need constant entertainment or I would fiddle the entire house apart. I still do, but now I can stare at the wall, my head a swirling mess of song lyrics and imaginary scenarios and white noise, and I can retreat into my mind and think about everything and nothing. I did that for all of class, just staring and thinking and moving slowly farther and farther away from reality. He tapped me on the shoulder. He asked me what I was thinking. I shrugged. Then I went back to the wall, but my head was filled with black hair and tan skin and sharp eyes. When I got home I peeled the plastic off of every water bottle and unopened 6 pack, bent every paper clip out of shape.

February 26,

I went over to Baz’s house today. We finished the project. While I pasted the words and pictures on to the board, I caught him staring at me. His eyes were soft and deep and full of something other than hate or pity. It made me shiver.

March 1,

I ate a sandwich today. It was probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It had avocado and bacon and cheese, and it was grilled and greasy. I ate it with a side of garlic fries. I eat things fast. Very fast. But, for the few seconds between plate and stomach, it felt like I was floating. There was food all over my face. I am not a pretty eater. I’ve been thinking about it for hours now. It and other things. But mainly the sandwich.

March 3,

I didn’t stare at the wall today. I stared at far more interesting things, and my thoughts were anything but cloudy.

March 6,

I went over to Baz’s house again today. We didn’t talk a lot. We did homework, and stared at each other. He would open his mouth, and I would look up at him, waiting for him to speak, and he would look at me looking at him, and he would close his mouth. I don’t know why he does this. Voluntarily spending time with me. Sitting in silence. I pulled the plastic off my binder.

March 7,

Nothing happened today.

March 8,

Nothing happened today.

March 9,

Nothing happened today.

March 10,

I cried today for no reason. I should stop doing that. There was a reason. I tried to write a text to Baz, but I didn’t know what words to use or how to spell them. I sent an unfinished draft. It only said half of what I wanted to say, and not how I wanted to say it. I got mad at myself, and I cried, and I got mad at myself for crying.

March 12,

I didn’t cry today. I didn’t feel much today. I spent a lot of time staring at the wall. I didn’t rip anything up or pick at my nails. I didn’t do much of anything.

March 14,

Nothing happened today.

March 15,

Nothing happened today.

March 16,

I texted Baz today. We talked about movies and other dumb shit like that. I said some some stupid things, but I said some good things too. I like texting better than calling. I can’t talk, but I can write. Not well. Not well all. But I don’t start crying. Not normally. Maybe that’s thanks to this stupid diary.

Baz said texting was annoying and idiotic but he still does it. He knows how I don’t like talking.

March 17,

Nothing happened today. Except I ate a scone. A cherry scone. It was better than the sandwich. I ate it slow, like I don’t do, so I could savor it. It was a little chewy, but it was the best thing. He made it. For me. With his hands. His, strong, long-fingered musician’s hands. I ate it slowly. It was the best.

March 18,

Nothing happened.

March 20,

Nothing happened.

March 21,

Baz isn’t sharp to touch.

May 6,

I haven’t written in this in a while. My therapist would be mad at me. It’s not like I’m fixed. I’m far from fixed. I’m still very broken.

I used to think that Baz was perfect. That he was a prince, a porcelain doll, too good for this world, too good to touch. Now I know the truth. He’s just broken in all the ways I’m okay, and he’s okay in all the ways I’m broken. We’re twice as fucked up together, but we balance each other out. His hands stay still when he wants them to, and he thinks before he speaks. I smile and bounce and don’t care what people think about me. We’re twice as broken but we help each other function. My therapist likes Baz for that. She calls him a “coping mechanism”. Fuck her, and her words.


End file.
